


Fed Up

by FatlocknDomJohn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Multi, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-09-08
Packaged: 2018-02-08 21:48:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1957314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FatlocknDomJohn/pseuds/FatlocknDomJohn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My first story on my own! Will start off a bit sad, but it will get fun and kinky I promise!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Feeding

If there was one thing John Watson seemed to truly enjoy, it was cooking.  
  
…At least according to Sherlock Holmes.

It seemed that at all hours of the day (breakfast, lunch, and dinner time) John would prepare sumptuous banquets (meals) and **always** attempt to force them on our fair detective. And without fail – ever, single, time – Sherlock would glare and spit out

“No.”

  
The word would spill out of the bony consultant’s mouth, past Cupid’s bow lips, dribbling down that violently sharp chin and spreading out over purple silk covering protruding rips, slipping past hip bones and pooling like ocean of bile on the floor between the two men.  
  
And yet John would continue, trying to tempt the terse detective with rich, saucy lasagna, full to the brim with sausage and garlic, or freshly made curry, the aroma of spices hovering about the flat for days. But the answer always remained a firm, hard -  
  
“No.”  
  
That is, until one day…  
  


It was an abysmally hot summer morning as the duo was summoned to a rather grisly and compelling murder – “At /minimum/ an eight, possibly even a nine!” – and were greeted by a portly detective, who lifted yellow caution tape around the scene, his chubby cheeks lifting in to a broad smile as he gave pleasantries to the blogger and quiet hellos to the detective.  
  
Normally Sherlock could care less about whatever pathetic excuse for an officer  allowed him into a ‘restricted’ area, but something about this one bothered him – He had no unique signifiers – recently married golfer that broke his wrist at the age of eight – but something piqued the detective’s curiosity. While John wandered ahead to use his medical knowledge on the body, Sherlock grabbed Gavin by the arm.  
  
“Who is that?” Sherlock demanded, his tone harsh and abrupt, his grip too-firm  
  
“And hullo to you too, Sunshine” Greg responded cheekily, but upon noting the intensity of Sherlock’s gaze, quickly replied, “Officer Daniels, you’ve met at least half-a-dozen times, why? Do you think he’s involved?” The last bit spoken as a whisper, Lestrade leaning his face in close to the detective’s.  
  
Sherlock withdrew, sucking his chin into his neck with a look of revulsion at the Inspector’s stupidity, “Officer Daniels?!” He replied,  looking from the curve of the chubbier man’s gut to Lestrade, “Officer Daniel’s is trim and can exactly four-hundred seventy eight squats in one sitting.” Sherlock blushed, desperately attempting to not picture the younger officer’s firm bum.  
  
Greg simply raised an eyebrow and smiled lightly, “You really didn’t recognize him? He hasn’t put on that much wei….well” Lestrade conceited, looking past Sherlock to his rounder officer. “His wife certainly has been feeding him up, hasn’t she?” Greg joked.  
  
Sherlock’s eyes returned to Gibby’s face again, searching confusedly.  
  
“His _wife_ fattened him up?! You’d think she’d want him fit for adequate sexual activities!” The detective replied incredulously.  
  
“Oi! Enough of that!” Lestrade warned, raising his finger to wag at Sherlock like a father would to a child, “Have you really never heard of ‘feeding up’ a partner?” He asked, seriously, “It’s quite common for those in committed relationships to add a few pounds to their partner, and do not be rude to Officer Daniels for it.” With that, Lestrade was off, greeting John and casually discussing the previous night’s rugby match.  
  
Sherlock stood quietly for a moment, gears in his head turning wildly as he attempted to take in the information. He solved the case quickly, if a bit distractedly, and was silent for the rest of the evening.  
  
Until it all clicked  
  
John had prepared a tray of his signature lasagna, and when he asked Sherlock he wondered why the detective’s eye went so wide as let out an enthusiastic,  
  
“Yes!”  
  
Sherlock finished nearly half the pan, talking to John excitedly about an experiment he was doing at first, but by the end of the meal groaning, hiccupping, and clutching his overfilled tummy. The detective felt warm and fuzzy, his head so empty of thoughts, when John’s calloused, steady hands guided him into his room and put him to bed.  
  
Sherlock felt _loved_.  
  
 Hours becomes days and days became weeks, and the now eternally cheerful detective ate with gusto. Greasy omelets with bacon and heavily buttered rolls passing through smiling lips and into a gradually softening tummy. Huge orders of takeout settling on widening hips and filling out the seats of once-perfectly tailored trousers. Rich pastas deepening belly buttons and popping buttons off of skin-tight silk shirts.  
  
Sherlock estimated that John’s casual touches had increased tenfold. Warm hands on shoulders, squeezing lightly and tugging at the now-slightly-unfit detective as he waddled behind at crime scenes, grazing the detective’s overstuffed gut at every opportunity.  
  
One night of extreme stuffing ever resulting in a very long belly rub.  
  
And then one morning Sherlock simply couldn’t take it anymore. He almost skipped down the stairs, his round bottom bouncing behind him, and before John could even mutter “Good Morning,” Sherlock planted a quick and affectionate kiss on his blogger’s lips, proudly stating  
  
“I’ve never been happier.”  
  
John looked…supremely uncomfortable, and Sherlock felt his heart sink.  
  
“Sherlock…I’m not gay.” His blogger said, a slight blush rising to his cheeks.  
  
“But…what?” Sherlock asked, a feeling of panic rise within him, “Y-you were feeding me up! I noted an increase in your heart rate and pupil dilation every time I ate, and every time you felt how much weight your food had put on me – all clear signs of arousa-”  
  
“Enough!” John shouted, slamming the pan he’d be holding down on the stove, “I am _not_ gay, and I am sure as hell _not_ interested in you.”  
  
John pushed past his softer flat mate, grabbing his coat and stomping toward the door.  
  
“John! J-John wait!” Sherlock called out, attempting to follow the man, “I couldn’t have been wrong! All the facts add up! Th-there isn’t anything to be embarrassed about! I love you too!” On that the doctor spun about quickly, getting in the Sherlock’s personal space,  
  
“You listen to me, Sherlock,” John said, grabbing the detective’s wrists with none of the gentleness Sherlock had grown accustomed to , “I am not in love with you, and if you decided to eat like a pig and blow up, th-then that’s on you!”  
  
Though his last words seemed slightly guilty, John grabbed Sherlock’s soft belly roughly, hard enough to leave red marks into the night, and quickly stormed out the door.  
  
Sherlock stood in the hall, his lip quivering, hands exploring the new ball of flesh upon his once concave stomach.  
  
Everything would be ok, the detective thought, John would cool off, come home, and everything would go back to normal.  
  
A text later that evening would reveal that John got a date,  
  
One month later he moved out.  
  
Five months after that, Sherlock Holmes was folding napkins for his best friend’s wedding.  
  
One night after that, Sherlock Holmes found himself in a bar, alone, and twenty pounds heavier than he was before John left.


	2. Drinking

The bar was…mediocre. It served beer and a couple of boozier mixed drinks, which our fair hero took desperate advantage of.

And then, after a healthy dose of liquid courage, Sherlock found himself engaging in his favorite activity -

It began with a few whispered comments about the man in the toupee at the end of the bar – “Two kids, engages in role play as Superman and Wonder Woman with his wife, …he’s Wonder Woman.”  
  
Strangely, at the end of his deduction, the detective heard a small batch of chuckles emerge from the group of men next to him. He smiled cockily,  
  
“Rugby players, meet twice a week…Mondays and Wednesdays judging by your fresh but also healing injuries, two lawyers, one stockbroker, and a…materials manager of a hospital.” He was awarded with a few claps and light whistles, and the men insisted on buying Sherlock a drink. Then another…then another, and by his fifth Sherlock was loudly deducing the entire bar, many customers becoming slightly…angry with his prying mind. But he had his “friends” to protect him! Sherlock hadn’t felt this good in ages!  
  
…Until he turned his gift upon his new mates…hoping to give them a light ribbing  
  
Two minutes later, a black-eyed detective lay sprawled outside the bar, holding his bruised ribs as he attempted to bring himself back  to his knees. Sherlock’s purple, Egyptian cotton shirt was torn, and his expensive suit pants torn on he had skidded on his knees after being thrown out. His tummy poked out where a lower button had burst from the sharp movements, the soft, ivory flesh red and bruising rapidly. His now plump, plush bottom rested on his heels, and this was moment Sherlock had to face it.  
  
Sherlock Holmes was fat.  
  
Not podgy, or a little plump, _fat_. The detective took a handful of the soft lip that now graced his lower belly, lifting it and letting it drop. His whole body shook and jiggled.  
  
Maybe he was wrong about John, maybe he’d be wrong about everything. If he hadn’t ate so much, if he hadn’t kiss him, if he hadn’t been such a fucking pig…maybe John would still be here, would still be his friend. John would take his hand and they’d go barreling about London, chasing mysteries and criminals wherever they’d hide. Things had been perfect, hadn’t they? Things had been just so completely perfect and he’d gone and _ruined_ them on the assumption John would love him fat.  
  
Sherlock reached a hand to his bottom, found much more than he was used to, and he felt disgust.  
  
It was all his fault.  


John was gone, and it was all his fault.  
  
The detective felt his lip quiver, his walls lowered with the sheer amount of alcohol pumping through his veins, and let out a small whimper.  
  
He fell back onto his bottom, and actually felt hurt that the landing was so…soft.  
  
Drunk, fat, and alone, Sherlock did the only thing that any seemed to make sense to his intoxicated brain.  
  
He leaned his face into his hands, and quietly waited to die of exposure.  
  
Not too minutes later, a small, faraway sounding voice and a pair of calloused, but gentle hands woke the drama queen from his Mind Palace.  
  
“Hey, come on mate, it’ll be alri-J-jesus! Sherlock!?”  
  
Sherlock looked around, blinking, trying to determine ehat was happening.  
  
Kind voice, strong, steady hands…John? John! H-he’d come back!  
  
Sherlock drunkenly threw his arms around his friend’s firm torso, burying his face in the man’s jacket, murmuring something even he didn’t entirely understand.  
  
“Hey, hey, come on. It’s ok, up we go.”  
  
The man grunted, heaving the much-heavier detective onto his feet, bracing him about his soft waist, hands holding steady at Sherlock’s wide hips.  
  
“There we are,” the voice said with such kindness, such warm affection,  “Had ourselves a wild night?” There was a smile in the voice now  
  
Sherlock threw his arms around the man’s shoulders, and combined with his intoxicated swaying, a bizarre sort of dance emerged, two freshmen at prom. This got a small laugh from the man, and Sherlock hummed happily.  
  
He lazily blinked again, the fuzzy face becoming clearer under the soft light of London’s street-lamps.  
  
A strong jaw and a mouth crooked into a smile, lines about the eyes and nose that signified a happy, expressive face, rich, silver hair that-silver hair?  
  
Sherlock blinked again, his stomach sinking.   


“G-Gavin?” He said, his eyes going wide.  
  
Lestrade laughed, “It’s Greg, you great tit.” The Inspector teased, “Ready to go h-oh! Oh Sherlock!”  
  
Sherlock’s arms dropped to his sides, gentle tears rolling down the detective’s face.

It wasn’t John. John didn’t come this time. He was gone, he was truly gone and he wasn’t coming back.

Greg quickly pulled the detective into a hug, and easy move from their positions, allowing Sherlock to drunkenly burying his face into the inspector’s shoulder.  
  
Strong hands stroked up and down the detective’s back, and doughy arms wrapped around the inspector’s slim waist.  
  
“Hey, hey it’s alright! It’s ok Sherly! So you got into a little fight! That’ll make a great stor-”   


“It’s my fault!” Sherlock interrupted. “He’s gone and it’s all my fault!”  
  
It dawned on Greg, Sherlock drunk in a bar the day after John’s wedding, weeping on the sidewalk, having emotionally eaten himself into a oblivion.  
  
“Sherlock, Sherlock look at me.” Greg coaxed, smiling at the sniffling, Consulting Drunk, “John is your friend, and you’re sad he’s gone, but he isn’t gone for good! He’s got a wife, yeah but…but you’ve got other friends! There’s Molly and Mrs. Hudson and…and me!” Greg beamed, looking at the younger man, who suddenly looked confused and uncomfortable, causing Greg to laugh.  
  
“Yeah, that’s right! The rude and terrible Sherlock Holmes has at least three people that absolutely adore him!” Greg let go of Sherlock’s waist now, the detective no longer sniffling, but still swaying lightly. He looked supremely unnerved, but that was much, much better than sobbing, and Greg counted that as a positive thing.  
  
He placed a steady hand on the detective’s arm, which caused Sherlock look from it to Greg’s face, booze-soaked brain trying to figure out exactly what the hand meant.  
  
“Now you look here, Sherlock,” Lestrade said, putting on Detective Inspector voice, “The next time you feel lonely, or are upset, you come and get bloody smashed with me, not a bunch of idiots in a bar that don’t get you. Understood?”  
  
Sherlock stared for a moment, letting the words sink in, a small warmth blooming in his chest…a warmth he hadn’t felt in a long time.  
  
The detective nodded furiously.  
  
Greg beamed, letting out a small laugh. “Good! Now, let’s get you home, yeah?”  
  
Though his offer was tempting, Sherlock didn't take it up until nine days later -   


...The day John returned from his honeymoon


	3. Shopping

The little shop was overly-lit and was all the way across town, but honestly it was the only one John knew well, and he didn’t want to keep his new _wife_ waiting. He just loved the feeling the word shot through him.  
  
 _Wife_.

That wonderful thing his parents had wanted him to get since he was born. His mother had cried tears of joy when she learned her “baby boy” had tied the knot, and he even thought he heard a shiver of emotion in his father’s voice when he’d called to congratulate his son.  
  
Mary was _perfect_. Sure, John had only known her a few months. And sure, she snored…and generally burned any sort of food she touched. And sure, it was a _little_ odd that she had no real friends that knew her any time before John did.  
  
But other than all that she was _perfect_.

And John was most definitely happy, plain and simple, to be with her. Not that he didn’t miss Sherlock, just a little, tiny bit. It was actually kind of nice not to be gallivanting around London having…wild and…absolutely brilliant adventures. Ok, he was bored. Dr. John Hamish Watson was nearly bored out of his skull, but that’s what married life was, right? Just…quiet things. Waking up together, having breakfast, fighting over tv remotes. One small part of his brain, however, couldn’t help but wonder what would’ve happened if he’d just…let that one kiss pass. If he’d just ignored it and stayed with…Sherlock!?

John froze, hands gripping the cart he was pushing until his knuckles went white, the blood draining from his face.  
  
N-no….it couldn’t be!

The man just a few steps away from him was…fat. Undeniably round at the hips, which pressed against the seams of his skin-tight pajama pants. A sliver of pale, smooth belly poked out the bottom of a grease-stained tee, which clung tightly to plump arms and stretched across a budding, supple chest. John stared, unabashedly, his mouth hanging open. Was this the mad, brilliant man he’d gone running about London with? The man whose angles and edges had driven him wild with-

John felt himself flush a bit.

He had, indeed, fed his flat mate up a bit, but it was because the man needed it! He barely ate and…and…  
  
And feeding Sherlock had given John just the smallest amount of control. Seeing the man full and sleepy after a big meal had been a rush, knowing it was _he_ who did that to the magnificent and power Sherlock Holmes.  
  
But, he’d never really expect Sherlock to get so…big. John had wondered what his flat-mate would look like with a little gut on him, just enough to bounce when the excitable young man burst into a scene.

But now he gazed upon a truly fat man.

John felt his stomach flip when the man stretched up, a wide strip of creamy fat jiggling lightly.  John’s mouth went dry for a moment, but then he followed that curve up to Sherlock’s face.

Light stubble dusted over a handsome, but definitely sleep-deprived face. Sharp angles and high cheekbones softened, ever so slightly. Heavy bags sat under eyes that John remembered as…piercing. Said eyes were now glazed, sadly looking over the calories in the shop’s two-percent milk, then slowly gazing over to the other cartons near him. John’s heart sank. Where was the light, the spinning energy and bold pride behind those eyes? The mad laughter or the fierce anger that exploded into every room the detective entered? Sherlock had been quiet the last few months they lived together…or had John just been ignoring him? He knew he’d seen less and less of his best lately but-  
  
 His best friend. Sherlock was his best friend and…well he’d just left him.  He should do something. Say hello. Just move past his gay panic and…  
  
John quickly turned his cart around, moving into the next aisle, and dialed his wife.

***

Sherlock put the two-percent back, picking up the skim. The detective moved a graceful hand to his plump middle, sighing as the flesh squished under his fingers. Any sense he’d had about a diet was a bust, his lack of self-control and addictive personality had left Sherlock shoveling in cookies and cakes whenever he could get his hands on them. And with a sweet and caring landlady beneath him, one that insisted he looked “Fine, dear. Positively cherubic,” that was turning out to be every hour of every day.

He’d answered several cases online, each one resulting in payments large enough to make the rulers of small nations jealous, but it wasn’t really the same. He hadn’t left the flat since that night at the pub, and while Greg had given him an absurd number of text messages, phone calls, emails, and one very enthusiastic candy-gram, Sherlock had yet to even call him. He simply shuffled about his flat, mostly sitting on the sofa, or in John’s chair, clutching a pillow close to his chest and waiting until he was tired enough to go back to bed.

This little chore he’d been sent out on had been assigned by Mrs. Hudson, who’d come up into his flat with a plate of cookies, lamenting over the fact that there was no milk to go along with them. She’d been trying to get the detective out his flat for as long as she could remember, so she decided to make a game of it.  
  
“Oh no! Whatever am I to do!” She huffed, loud enough to be heard, staring down at her shopping list. This had, of course, piqued the detective’s curiosity enough for him to waddle down the stairs and into his landlady’s flat. Not responding actively, but looking at the woman in a way  that encouraged her to continue. Mrs. Hudson had explained that she needed to know what type of milk would go best with her cookies, and the detective perked up slightly at the thought of an experiment, waddling outside and taking a taxi two blocks to the market.  
  
And experimenting was exactly what he was doing – looking over each type of milk, mentally assessing their respective pros and cons, but then he heard a voice- no, he heard the most important voice of all – coming from the aisle next to his. He was muttering something, Sherlock too ecstatic to fully pay attention as he moved down his hall, hips swaying,, each round, bulbous cheek rising and falling in perfect synchronicity. Then he started thinking, hard. Started focusing.  
  
 _Why hadn’t John approached him? He promised he’d call as soon as he got back. Had something gone wrong? Had something-_  
  
Sherlock froze at the end of John’s aisle, heart stopping at what he heard -  
  
“He just looks so…”  
  
“Pathetic.”  
  
 _P-Pathetic?_ Sherlock’s brain repeated, his eyes swimming. _What…John couldn’t mean..._ But it was undeniable the doctor was talking about him.  Sherlock looked down at his stained, near-tearing tee. He pinched at the soft bit of creamy fat that oozed out its bottom. He rubbed at the chin that hadn’t been shaved in more than a week.  
  
He felt disgust.  
  
Then, Sherlock felt anger.  
  
Pathetic? Pathetic?! Sherlock Holmes was not _pathetic_! The detective’s blood boiled.  
  
“Say that again?” He boomed, marching toward John, standing at full height, letting his bulk take up all the space around him. John jumped, dropping his phone, the screen shattering.  
  
“Sh-sherlock! I was-”

  
“You were what? Speaking to your _wife_ about your _charity case_ of a best friend?” He bellowed, coming to stand mere inches from John, his round belly squashing against the man’s own. “Telling her how _needy_ I was, how _pathetic_ I looked without you!?”  
  
“Sherlock! N-no I was…” John trailed off, looking sheepish, nervous, the man’s belly soft and warm against his own.  “C-come on Sherlock! I was just-”

“You were just flaunting your superiority over someone you considered a _friend_.” The detective finished, hating himself as his voice cracked halfway through.  
  
“W-well John I’m…I’m doing just fine!” The man insisted, his lower lip quivering.  
  
John looked pained. “Oh…Oh Sherlock! Sherlock, I’m sorry.” He reached out toward the detective.  
  
Sherlock pulled back. “I will not be…pitied.” He said, spitting out the word as if it burned, turning on his heels and hurrying out of the market. He hailed a cap just outside, the driver slightly concerned when the grown man burst out in wracked sobs, burying his face in his hands. So much so that when Sherlock flew out of the cab and into the tall, grey building he’d requested, he just sighed. Not wanting to pursue a clearly suffering person.  
  
Sherlock wept the entire ride up the elevator, barely able to see the numbers on each door. When he found the correct one, he banged on it aggressively, then threw himself into the arms of the person who opened the door.  
  
Imagine the young detective’s surprise when instead of a warm, comforting voice cooing compliments and soothing words in his ear, a cold, familiar voice breathed  
  
“Hello, brother.”


End file.
